


Without a Plan

by BerityBaker



Series: All in the Details [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerityBaker/pseuds/BerityBaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John trusts Sherlock. But he doesn't necessarily trust Sherlock to take care of himself. And that's starting to lead him down a path he's been avoiding. This one's Part Three of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/54160">All in the Details</a>, and you can slip it in between TGG and ASiB.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize profusely at your feet that I've kept you brilliant people waiting. College sucks. But this was fun to write. And hey, at least I haven't kept you waiting as long as Sherlock himself did. Obviously, I don't own anything, least of all the dialogue that takes place at the pool.

It had been sudden. One moment, John had been enjoying the temporary freedom from Sherlock; the next he was being thrust into a moving car, a bag over his head.

A vaguely familiar voice babbled excitedly about Sherlock, but John had trouble understanding him through the ringing in his head. The bump his head had taken from the butt of a pistol wasn’t doing anyone any favors.

“And then there was _you_ , my dear Watson,” the giddy voice said, making John’s head spin. “As soon as I saw you, I just _knew_ —you were the key.” Hands were removing his coat.

“To what?” John managed, though his head was still swimming and his eyes couldn’t focus under the burlap.

“Why…to Sherlock, of course.” The voice was uncomfortably close to his ear. He shied away from its owner.

There was no further explanation, just a pair of hands pulling him from the car and shoving his arms into a heavy vest—an extremely heavy vest—and a foreign coat being placed over it. It didn’t take a Holmes to know what that meant, in light of recent events.

There was no telling where they were, so John took in all the sounds and smells: chlorine…a sort of dripping sound echoing from a fairly low ceiling. A swimming pool. No sooner had he thought so than the sack was pulled from his head, revealing one shimmering a few feet away. Under different circumstances, he might have laughed when his next thought was that Sherlock would be proud of him for deducing as much.

“That’s right, Johnny-boy. It’s Ji-i-im! From IT!” the man with the childishly mischievous voice sang, and it was immediately clear where he’d heard it before. “Now, I’m gonna put this little earpiece here,” Jim continued, placing it in John’s ear and ghosting his fingers along John’s tense jaw.

John stared straight ahead, deciding not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Oh, come now. You’re not gonna let a little spite get in the way of my good time, are you?”

At this, John looked him in the eyes, seeing what he hadn’t seen in “Jim from IT”: they were dead. His face was all playfully devious, but his eyes were _dead_. Practically coal-black with too-white whites, they remained untouched by any jest or condescension or even hatred. They were simply cold and dead.

He wished he could look away.

“Don’t worry, Johnny-boy, Sherlock’ll be here to get you in a moment. He was the one who brought me here, you know. Called a little meeting.”

“He—he did, did he?”

It couldn’t possibly surprise him, and yet he still felt like he’d been betrayed, like he’d been left out of something important. Something dangerous.

John heard a distant door open, and Moriarty shoved him between two concealing panels. “You know the drill, Johnny-boy. You say whatever I say, and you won’t find yourself...” He made a noise like a bomb going off, throwing his arms wide in another childish display before running off and hiding himself.

John was terrified despite himself. He’d been in sticky situations before. Hell, even if he hadn’t been shot in Afghanistan, Sherlock had taken him on plenty of ridiculously risky and potentially fatal adventures since his return. But there was something on the horizon here. Sherlock was on his way inside, not knowing what he was walking into, not knowing that John was here for nothing more than to be used by Moriarty.

Suddenly, he heard Sherlock’s voice, calling out for his adversary, and the silky Irish lilt murmured in his ear, “Go get him, darling. It’s showtime.” John stepped from his hiding place, a plan already forming in his mind. He blinked rapidly, willing Sherlock to get the message, praying that he hadn’t gone and “deleted” Morse.

The look that crossed behind Sherlock’s eyes nearly broke him. It was such a rare look of hurt and confusion that it was all John could do to listen to Moriarty’s words and repeat them stiffly.

“Evening.” He continued blinking. “Well, this is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” He held back the beginnings of tears, still blinking frantically.

“John. What the hell…?”

“Bet you never saw this coming.” He could hear the malicious smile through the earpiece. Still, he repeated the words, eyelids fluttering rapidly.

The pain in Sherlock’s eyes spread rapidly, making him seem younger and more vulnerable. John couldn’t take it—he pulled open his jacket to reveal the explosives beneath, and he could breathe just a little bit easier when Sherlock’s notion that he’d somehow been deceived visibly drained from his features and left room for not relief, but what looked like indifferent understanding.

“What would you like me to make him say next?” John resisted collapsing to his knees as he imitated the voice again. “Gottle o’ gear, gottle o’gear, gottle o’gear…”

Sherlock was no longer staring at John. “Stop it.”

“Nice little touch, this,” John continued, still listening. “The pool where little Carl died.” John’s mind worked fast, somehow knowing where his forced monologue was headed. “I stopped him.”

Something seemed to click behind Sherlock’s mask agitatedly as John watched and repeated the next words fed to him. He still struggled to keep himself upright. “I can stop John Watson, too.” Sherlock glanced at the red dot of a laser sight set on John. “Stop his heart.”

“Who are you?” Only John himself could possibly have heard the desperation in the man’s voice as he kept himself from shouting.

There was a small click in his ear, and the slight static from John’s earpiece cut off. It was time for the show, he realized.

“I gave you my number. I thought you might call,” the singsong voice taunted. Moriarty stepped from concealment. “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket…or are you just pleased to see me?”

Sherlock raised John’s handgun and set his sights on the man before him. “Both.”

Jim, unfazed, smiled. “Jim Moriarty. Hi!”

Sherlock said nothing, simply studied his curious adversary, cocking his head as though in, of all things, fascination.

“Jim? From the hospital?” When Moriarty moved, Sherlock raised his other hand to steady the gun. “Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose that was rather the point.”

John saw the laser flicker in his peripherals. Sherlock looked at him with…what was that? Concern? Moriarty continued his monologue, but John couldn’t look away from that expression. It was half question, half—undeniably—fear. Surely Sherlock shouldn’t have been letting his hand tip that much in the presence of such a dangerous man.

“Consulting criminal,” Sherlock was saying, and the phrase caught John’s attention. “Brilliant,” he whispered, and John, in spite of everything that was currently happening, in spite of all of the danger he currently found himself in, had to resist rolling his eyes.

“Isn’t it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will.”

“I did,” Sherlock stated, rather more like a haughty schoolboy than a man his age should have.

“You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way.” The unmelodic song was creeping back into the cold but proud voice.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes you did.”

“Yeah, okay, I did,” Jim conceded immediately. “But the flirting’s over, Sherlock, Daddy’s had enough now!”

As he began to approach them again, John closed his eyes, trying to imagine anything else but being blown to bits and taking Sherlock with him. He still didn’t feel much better when he opened them and spotted Sherlock wearing down nearly imperceptibly with the teasing. “People have died.”

“That’s what people _DO_!”

“I will stop you,” Sherlock said after a moment to recover from Moriarty’s sudden change of temperament.

“No you won’t,” he replied dangerously.

Sherlock paused again, then looked fully at John for the first time since the bomb had been revealed. “You all right?” he asked softly. If John didn’t know better, he would’ve said there was something like concern littering his tone.

He didn’t speak. If anything, he was most worried that a word from him would take them all up, and if there was one thing he knew at the moment, it was that Sherlock Holmes needed to get out of here alive.

“You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead.”

John resented the condescension so much that he chose not to, and nodded instead at Sherlock, who stared John in the face for a moment more before suddenly reaching a hand into his pocket and pulling out the memory stick.

“Take it,” he said, the desperation becoming more and more evident.

“Huh? Oh, that,” Jim murmured casually, stepping past John to take it. Another plan began to form in John’s mind, a bloody mad plan, but it couldn’t fail to get Sherlock out of there alive, John thought. “The missile plans,” Moriarty continued. He turned it over in his fingers and kissed it. “Boring!” he sang out suddenly. Another blink and the memory stick was in the water. John saw his only opportunity slipping away.

He leapt forward and pinned himself to Moriarty’s back, an arm around his neck, another around his chest. “Sherlock, run!” he grunted, struggling to make sure his grip on Moriarty was secure.

To John’s utter frustration, Jim simply laughed, although he wouldn’t have said he was entirely surprised. “Good! Very good!”

Sherlock had taken a step back, his eyes softening and then freezing all over again, but his gun’s sights never left Moriarty.

“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up,” John growled. Although he was sure it was something the man had worked out for himself, there was a sort of savage satisfaction that ripped through him as he said the words aloud.

“Isn’t he sweet,” Moriarty cooed. “I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets. They’re so touchingly loyal. But, oops! You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.”

John’s heart sunk like a stone as the dot of another laser sight found its way to rest on Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed in frustration as though this was just what he’d expected. As soon as he regained function of his own limbs, John had no choice but to release Moriarty and back away, arms raised in surrender to the invisible sniper.

John’s mind became an adrenalized buzzing of spectacularly stupid ideas, all of them bouncing off of each other and making him want nothing more than to curl up into a ball on the floor and sort them out before he could pay any more attention to the standoff before him, one he’d been unceremoniously and unwittingly dragged into on the day Mike Stamford had taken him to Bart’s with the intention of introducing him to a potential flatmate.

“Well, so nice to have had a proper chat,” Moriarty said, somehow managing to chill John to the bone with his deceivingly casual manner.

“What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?” Sherlock said, raising the gun a bit higher.

“Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face.” Then, in the most childish display yet, Jim produced an oddly unsettling caricature of the expression. “’Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock. I really would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course, you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.” Sherlock glanced again at the red light on John’s chest. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock followed Moriarty’s every move as he took his leave, keeping him in his sights and slowly replying: “Catch…you…later.”

“No you won’t!” Moriarty sang before John heard the sound of a door closing echo off the surface of the water.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised (sort of, vaguely), here's the next chapter since I'm so bad at deadlines.

John managed to take a breath before Sherlock’s hands were on him, divesting him of the outer, explosive clothing. “Alright?” he said, breathless, and when John didn’t answer, more urgently: “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Sherlock was pulling the bomb away from him now, more panicked than John had ever seen him. “I’m fine,” he tried to reassure him, no matter how untrue it was. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock nearly pulled his arms out of their sockets trying to get off his coat and explosive vest. “Sherlock!”

Finally having removed them, Sherlock slid them along the floor, putting as much distance between the clothing and themselves as possible. John staggered and leaned against the nearest vertical surface, panting. “Jesus. Oh, Christ,” he muttered between heavy breaths that didn’t seem to be doing anything productive.

Sherlock appeared from around a corner. John hadn’t even seen him leave, but he was suddenly turning the corner from the direction in which Moriarty had left and pacing distractedly. If John hadn’t still been recovering from his own shock, he might have reminded Sherlock that the gun with which he was absentmindedly and agitatedly scratching the back of his head was loaded. All he could manage at the moment was a heaving, “Are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah. I’m fine. I’m fine.” He turned to John. “That, er…thing that you…er, that you did. That, um…” He gestured vaguely with the pistol, sighing, for once at a loss for words. “That was…good.”

“I’m glad no one saw that,” John said, offering him an out but not exactly sure what he was saying himself.

“Hmm?”

“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk.” What had made him say that? As soon as the words had left his lips, a whole new type of shock struck John, shock at his own initiation of the speculations about his relationship with this strange man.

“People do little else,” Sherlock muttered, then looked at John, a smile creeping at the corners of his lips and eliminating John’s insecurity in uttering something so absurd.

He made to move, to stand up, but before he could do so, the sniper’s red light reappeared on his chest, filling his heart with even more anxiety than what had occurred under threat of being detonated. He looked up to see the matching streak of glowing scarlet across Sherlock’s head and his breath caught. How many snipers did Moriarty have in his control, and when was he going to make them back down?

“Sorry boys. I’m soooo _changeable_!” More red specks appeared and danced over both their bodies as Moriarty came into view once again. “It is a weakness with me. But, to be fair, it is my _only_ weakness.”

Sherlock finally turned away from the apparent source of the lights to look at John.

“You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!” Moriarty continued.

The look Sherlock gave John in that moment was completely foreign. Instead of a mask of indifference, John was startled to see every negative human emotion cross deep in his eyes, namely fear, concern, and enraged sadness. Most of all, there was a question there, a childish request for permission. John nodded very slightly as if to say, “I trust you. Whatever you’re planning on doing, I trust you.”

Sherlock turned back to Jim and raised his gun confidently. “Then probably my answer’s crossed yours.”

John considered whether giving such a man permission to do as he pleased with snipers trained on them both had been the right course of action, but as Sherlock dropped his sights from Moriarty to the bomb lying between them, he knew there was no denying the genius _or_ the insanity.

No sooner had John accepted that Moriarty was not going to back down, and that Sherlock was going to be forced to either do so himself or kill them all, than a tinny ringtone echoed from the tiles and the water. He furrowed his brow in confusion as Sherlock glanced around. Moriarty closed his eyes in frustration, much like a manager after receiving news that one of his employees has screwed up. He pulled a mobile phone from his pocket.

“Do you mind?” he asked Sherlock, as though they’d simply been chatting in a café.

“No, no, please. You’ve only got the rest of your life.”

Moriarty answered with a sighing “What do you want?” He mouthed “ _Sorry_ ” in Sherlock’s direction.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head with the same sarcastically casual air, never lowering the gun.

After listening for a moment, Moriarty made John jump when he suddenly shouted into the receiver.

He was genuinely irate, in strange contrast to all of the playfulness he’d put on display. John and Sherlock glanced at each other as the mysterious conversation continued. The continuous changes in atmosphere were jarring. John wasn’t sure he could handle the turbulence much longer after the events of the past hour.

Finally, the phone was lowered from Moriarty’s ear. “Sorry. Wrong day to die.” He seemed disappointed, but also a little lost in thought, like a new plan was in the works, one that required all of the brainpower he could muster.

John was more frightened than ever at that prospect.

“Oh, so did you get a better offer?” Sherlock said calmly.

Moriarty turned to leave. “You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock.”

Before making his exit, he called off the snipers with a snap of his fingers. And just like that, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be alarmed, the next chapter is where the actual original story begins, as opposed to this "John's internal thoughts" narration of what we already know nonsense that's been going on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really hard to keep it weekly with chapters pre-written, but I'm not gonna dig myself back into the hole I just got out of. So enjoy this small token.

“What happened there?” John asked, still trying to force his breath to catch up with his heartbeat.

“Someone changed his mind. The question is…who?”

Sherlock held out a hand in John’s direction. John took it and pulled himself to his feet, staggering slightly and steadying himself by grasping Sherlock’s shoulder. “We should phone Lestrade.”

Sherlock, however, was already typing with his free hand. He slid his phone back into his pocket. “Just sent him a text.”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, we almost got blown up. You could’ve called for that.”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock said stubbornly, his fingers twitching.

John became suddenly aware that his hand was still holding on to Sherlock’s for support, and his face instantly rose several degrees in temperature. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to take it away, especially with Sherlock gripping it so tightly in return. It was the one thing about him that felt or looked human at the moment. There was residual fear in that death grip, fear which John was more than willing to comfort, no matter how loudly his brain screamed at him that it was a bad idea, that if Lestrade’s team or any of Scotland Yard at all showed up and saw his hand in Sherlock’s, there would no doubt be more than the _possibility_ of talk.

“Alright, let’s go,” Sherlock sighed after a moment, taking John by surprise.

“What? No, Sherlock, we have to stay, we’ve got to wait here. We can’t just leave a bomb lying around.”

“No one’s going to be coming around here, it’s after midnight. Now let’s go home.” Sherlock looked him in the eyes, and John imagined he saw a little more moisture there than was typical. “Please.”

John sighed. Then he couldn’t help but smile a little. “Let me just phone Lestrade, then we’ll go.”

Sherlock groaned, but didn’t protest as John brought his own phone to his ear. “It’s John. Did you see Sherlock’s text?” As the voice on the other end responded in the negative, John shot Sherlock a look. “I’m sure he gave you the address if you look. We’ve had a run-in with Moriarty.”

“Wait a minute, _Moriarty_? The bomber?” Lestrade said.

John sighed. “Listen, can we talk about it tomorrow? It’s been a long day.”

“There hasn’t been trouble, has there?”

Sherlock smirked, evidently able to hear every word. He swiped the phone from John, who protested and swore rather loudly. “We are fine, Detective Inspector, thank you for your concern, but we would very much like to get back to our flat. Could you pick up this very explosive and dangerous device left here by a man who just kidnapped John and nearly killed both of us? It would be prudent to get it out of here before the children come in for swimming practice tomorrow morning. Also, there’s a memory stick filled with the nation’s secret missile plans in the pool.”

“What pool? You know what, never mind. Stay there. Someone’s on their way.”

“No, you misunderstand, Lestrade. We’re leaving. We’re going to go get shock blankets from our own home, not wait for someone to come along and force them on us, and we are going to leave the sorting out to you, and we will talk in the morning. Good night.” The call had been ended by the time Sherlock handed John his phone. He turned on his heel. “Come, John,” he commanded, dragging him along by the hand.

“Sherlock!” If he’d felt up to it, John would have dug in his heels and forced his companion to a stop. All he could think of, however, was having a nice cuppa and getting some rest.

They weren’t outside for long before John noticed the cold. He sighed and shivered. His coat was still on the floor, and there was no way he was going back in there. He tried to ignore the unseasonable chill, but the temperature had fallen even more since he’d been dragged inside.

Sherlock glanced at him. “Are you alright?” he asked again, and his voice was startlingly quiet.

“Yeah…yeah, just a bit cold.”

Without a word, Sherlock dropped John’s hand long enough to pull his arm out of his coat, which he then threw over John’s far shoulder before taking the vice-like grip again.

“Er…Sherlock…” John couldn’t look at him. “Er, thanks.”

“You’re in shock, you have enough to worry about without the cold,” he replied tersely.

They walked in silence, sharing the same coat and squeezing each other’s fingers for support until John finally said nervously, “Now they’ll _really_ talk.”

He could practically hear the eye-roll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a great week, and don't be afraid to comment or send me an ask on Tumblr; I'm still [holdencaulfieldinthetardis](http://holdencaulfieldinthetardis.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm a week late, please don't hurt me! Another chapter is coming this weekend.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock shouted when he opened the door. She scurried around the corner in her dressing gown. Upon spotting the two of them sharing Sherlock’s coat, she took a step back in wonder and smiled.

“What is it dear?”

“We could use some tea.” Sherlock marched up the stairs, dragging John along as well.

“Not your housekeeper,” she muttered, following them.

When they reached the flat, Sherlock finally let go of John’s hand, leaving him with a sort of relieved emptiness as he stepped out from under the coat and threw himself down into his chair.

“Did you have a nice night?” Mrs. Hudson asked them, busying herself with the kettle.

John turned to look at Sherlock in disbelief. The two men burst into relieved and exasperated laughter. Sherlock wrapped his coat more tightly around himself, lying across the sofa.

“What’s so funny?” their landlady said, showing up in the entryway between the kitchen and the sitting room.

“You are, Mrs. Hudson,” John said with a smile.

She shook her head and returned to her task. “You boys,” she muttered good-naturedly.

Sherlock’s head shot up suddenly. John quirked an eyebrow at him. “I’m going to bed.”

“But—Sherlock, didn’t you want tea?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, _you_ want tea. Have a nice chat with Mrs. Hudson. I, however, am going to get some rest, because I’ve had little sleep since the ‘gas explosion’ across the street. Good night, Mrs. Hudson,” he said as she entered the room.

“Sherlock, what about your tea?”

“Sleep!” he shouted over his shoulder, slamming his bedroom door behind him.

John and Mrs. Hudson looked at each other in confusion. The look they shared only deepened when Sherlock unexpectedly came back into the room, marched over to John’s chair to lift him into an awkward embrace, and then marched back out.

“I should go,” Mrs. Hudson said, handing John a steaming mug. “Enjoy your tea, dear. And don’t make him wait too long, you know how he gets.”

John had chosen absolutely the wrong moment to take a sip. He choked into his cup as the door closed behind her and he realized her implication.

He shook his head to clear it. He thought of Sherlock’s eyes when he’d thought John wasn’t what he said he was, and then how they had changed when he saw the bomb, and finally the way they had looked before the final standoff, when it was as though he had been asking for permission to carry out his improvised plan: an apology, regret and worry—those expressive eyes, so manipulative, so guarded, yet so revealing of the mind behind them.

He thought of Sherlock’s hand, fingers faintly stained and scarred here and there from years of experiments, held out in aid and comfort. When he’d taken it, he hadn’t realized he wouldn’t want to let go. But here he still was, wishing to go back to the moment he’d lost it and hold a little tighter, not let Sherlock leave his side.

Shaking his head was quite obviously not working.

He went to the kitchen and found a smallish bottle in a cabinet, something that he vaguely remembered getting for Christmas but that he wasn’t too concerned with identifying at the moment. He popped it open and took a long drink, grimacing.

A few more drinks, and he found himself leaning against Sherlock’s bedroom door, eyes closed, mind whirring in frustration.

The bottle was nearly empty when his fingers found the doorknob. Downing the last gulp, John turned the knob and entered, stumbling a bit and dropping the empty bottle to the floor, where it shattered. “Shit,” he muttered. He glanced at the bed. Sherlock never stirred.

John slid his sock-feet across the hardwood, taking care not to step in any glass in the darkness. He tried to lie down near the edge of the bed, but in his state was forced to accept sprawling half over his flatmate, one leg tangling with Sherlock’s, an arm landing gracelessly across his neck. The man was completely still.

John pulled himself together, composing himself enough to put one arm around Sherlock’s torso and lace their fingers together before collapsing once again into his drunken stupor. Still, Sherlock did not move.

It wasn’t until John pressed a sloppy but gentle kiss to the back of his neck that Sherlock’s hand tightened around John’s. “You’re intoxicated.”

“So what if I am? I can’t take your hand and just be a friend?” John slurred.

“Society would say no, especially considering we’re in the same bed.”

“Bugger society. This is nice.”

There seemed to be a sort of light reflected on the pillow that told John that Sherlock was smiling. “Isn’t this what you’d call atypical flatmate behavior?”

John didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want to have an answer. He curled closer around Sherlock, who tensed ever so slightly.

“John, I don’t—”

John shushed him and squeezed his hand, already drifting off. “Sherlock, would you just shut up for once?”

He did. And soon John was out like a light.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm still a deadbeat.

“John.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself back to sleep.

“John.” A hand shook his shoulder.

“Oh, God, draw the shades,” he groaned.

He peered at Sherlock’s outline hobbling over to the window through slits, refusing to fully open his eyes to the dazzling midday sun.

When he did open his eyes and sit up in the bed, he was immediately struck by the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. “What…oh,” he said, seeing the shattered remains of the bottle.

“John.”

“What is it, Sherlock?” John nearly shouted, turning to his flatmate, who still hadn’t moved from the window.

Sherlock pointed down at his own foot, and John saw small splashes of blood on the floor.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered, jumping off the bed, in full doctor mode now, despite the headache. He watched his path for glass and knelt down in front of Sherlock, who winced when he moved the foot to examine it.

John stood. “Come on, get off that foot,” he said, putting his shoulder under Sherlock’s arm and carefully leading him into the sitting room.

Taking his perch on the couch, Sherlock looked annoyed. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Keep it elevated,” John mumbled somewhat exasperatedly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I thought you were supposed to be the doctor here. It’s generally accepted that doctors are supposed to be health-conscious, not the _causes_ of accidents.”

“I said ‘I’m sorry,’ there’s nothing else I can do at the moment,” John muttered, kneeling in front of Sherlock again and studying the cut.

“You could act like a doctor.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” John shot back.

Sherlock huffed in irritation.

“Well, you shouldn’t need stitches, it isn’t really _that_ bad. There’s no shard in there or anything.”

“Then patch it up, would you?”

“Now, hold on. Let me get my kit, would you? Jesus.”

Cleaning the cut proved a bit difficult. Sherlock wouldn’t stop moving, and when John told him to stop, Sherlock said he couldn’t help it.

John stared at him, disinfectant in hand. “You mean you’re…you’re ticklish?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just gave him a dark look that held in it the threat of walking away and letting his cut get infected if John didn’t drop the subject.

But John couldn’t help laughing. “Really? I can’t believe it.”

“Then don’t. I still have an open cut on my sole, it would do well to go ahead fixing the mess you’ve made.”

“Fine,” John replied, still smiling broadly.

Once Sherlock’s foot was dressed, John made him test standing on it. His stoic expression managed to stick when his foot was lowered to the floor and he put his weight on it, and so John deemed him fit to limp around as needed, but told him to stick to the sofa as much as he could for the day.

Sherlock groaned as he flopped onto the sofa.

“Sherlock, if you don’t let it heal, you’ll have to stop chasing criminals all over London. What’ll you do when you won’t be able to solve cases because you can’t walk?”

Sherlock rolled over so that he was facing the back of the couch and didn’t say anything. John rolled his eyes as he walked to the kitchen for water. Bringing casework into it was the only way to get through to that giant, lanky baby, and despite Sherlock’s failure to acknowledge his compliance, John knew it was there. He only hoped it would hang about.

John rubbed his eyes and downed two glasses of water before he could even consider thinking of what had happened as he’d woken up. He remembered with a start that he had been sleeping in Sherlock’s bed. He remembered drinking quickly, and the shards on the floor were an easy sign that he had dropped an empty bottle. He was still fully clothed—so there was nothing to worry about, right? He simply hadn’t been sober enough to make it upstairs.

He was having trouble reassuring himself.

He heard a loud yelp from Sherlock’s room and he sighed. “Sherlock!” He put down his glass and walked around the corner to see Sherlock stumbling around, trying to walk on only his injured foot, his other leg contorted so that he could examine the other, which was also now injured.

Sherlock looked up as John entered, then immediately looked away like a shamed puppy. “I needed my dressing gown,” Sherlock said quietly. “I was cold.” John couldn’t tell whether he was studying his foot that closely or if he actually felt foolish. It was a foreign thing for Sherlock Holmes to back down, even when he was wrong.

“You couldn’t have watched your step?” John yelled, but when Sherlock looked up at him again, he looked like a child who knew he’d done something to upset his parents, and John’s own anger melted a bit. “Come on, Sherlock,” he said, lifting him up and carrying his tall figure to the sofa once again. “Now, do you see why I told you to stay here?” he asked gently.

Sherlock nodded. “But—”

“No, Sherlock, don’t you dare say anything, I’m still upset with you. If you wanted your dressing gown, you should’ve said something and I would’ve cleaned up the glass. Hell, I probably would have brought it to you. But instead you directly defied doctor’s orders while risking another injury.” John looked at the new cut. “Christ, this one actually has glass in it.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m sorry, John. I’ll stay on the sofa.”

“Promise?”

Sherlock threw his head back, obviously frustrated but still trying to keep John happy. “Yes.”

“Good.”

After fixing the new injury, John turned on the telly and sat next to Sherlock, watching him struggle with the urge to get up and climb on something. He grinned. “Comfortable?”

“Shut up.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Sherlock, Sarah’s here.”

There was no answer. John shouted up the stairs again.

“Sherlock, I’m leaving.”

“Oh. I suppose I’m obliged to urge you to be safe?” Sherlock yelled back.

“Yeah, I suppose. What are you even doing up there?”

“Experiment.” He appeared on the landing with a blowtorch and protective eyewear on his head.

John narrowed his eyes. “What kind of experiment involves a blowtorch in my bedroom?”

Sherlock scoffed as though it were completely obvious. “Be safe,” he said, sarcasm dripping from the corners of his smile.

John just sighed in resignation. “Fine. Just make sure you actually wear those over your eyes, I don’t want to be called back here because you’ve blinded yourself.”

“Yes, sure, fine,” Sherlock replied, waving a hand dismissively and disappearing back into John’s room.

“I’m going to come back to find my bedroom gutted and burned out,” he grumbled to Sarah when he joined her on the street.

“At least he’ll have the courtesy to get everything out before the fires,” she said as she helped John heft his suitcase into the boot of a taxi.

“Yeah, if I’m lucky.”

“Well, anyway. Ready?”

John nodded. The cabbie opened the door and stood aside to let them enter. “It’ll be nice to get away from that madman for a while.”

“How’s his foot?”

“Better. And it would keep in that direction if he didn’t keep insisting on walking everywhere. He won’t take a cab. It’s been a week and he’s still limping around London.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “There’s not much you can do for him if he’s not going to listen to you.”

John shook his head.

“You’re still worried, though,” Sarah added.

“Of course I’m worried. The man forgets to eat, it’s easy to see him forgetting about his foot and getting himself into a situation where he has to run for his life.”

“Well, he survived for over thirty years without you.”

 “I’m still not quite sure how he managed to do that.”

“He’s got a brother.”

John snorted. “You think he doesn’t listen to _me_ , you should see him with Mycroft.”

Sarah didn’t say anything else, and it took the rest of the ride to Heathrow for John to notice the way she held her jaw. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head.

“No, there’s something. What is it?”

“It’s just…I don’t want to hear about Sherlock Holmes for this entire trip.”

“You won’t. I’m happy to get away from him, actually, he—”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, John. You don’t even realize when you do it, but you bring him up constantly. Tell me, was whatever you were about to say actually relevant to the trip?”

“Well, no, but—”

“No. You were headed on a Holmes tangent.”

“A Holmes tangent? Is that what you call it?”

“Yeah. And I’ve learned to expect at least four from every date.”

John thought about that, then said, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I won’t talk about Sherlock.”

“Good. That will make a wonderful trip.”

By the time the plane took off, John had caught himself about to mention his insane flatmate nearly ten times. Not talking about Sherlock was proving to be extremely difficult, something that frightened John as much as it irritated him. Sarah could obviously tell it was a problem, but she looked pleased that he was making such an effort. She said nothing.

This was going to be a long plane ride.

+++

When the plane landed, John instinctively checked his phone for news of potential disasters from Sherlock. He found a single text in his inbox.

_Having fun? –SH_

John stared at the words, heard their mocking tone in his head, and replied quickly.

_I better come back to a structurally sound bedroom, you git._

There wasn’t a response until hours later.

_Lestrade called. I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up. –SH_

John’s brow furrowed. Did the man actually think he was still in London? He slid his phone back into his pocket, deciding not to bother with Sherlock Holmes again until they were back under the same roof.

“Was that Sherlock?” Sarah asked, and John tensed, prepared for another scolding. She shook her head. “John, he’s your friend. I understand if you text him. It’s the constant worrying that drives me up the wall.”

John sighed. “Yes, it’s him. He…I don’t think he even knows I’m gone.”

“What?”

“Look.”

He showed her the message, and she burst out laughing. “He really isn’t very observant, is he?”

“No, he is. Too observant. That’s the problem.”

Sarah smiled. “At least it’s not a problem you’ll have to deal with for another two weeks.”

“Yeah, when I get back and he wonders why I haven’t been answering him from the next room.”

“Oh, well. At least have some fun in the meantime.”

“I don’t suppose I have a better plan.” He grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be consistent.  
> I will be consistent.  
> I will be consistent.  
> I WILL BE CONSISTENT.  
> Thank you for your time, and I PROMISE I'LL START BEING MORE CONSISTENT ABOUT POSTING NEW CHAPTERS.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even have anything to say. You know I'm a deadbeat.

John’s time in New Zealand, instead of putting his mind at ease as he’d hoped it would, forced him to worry about his mad flatmate. Every two hours, he found himself sending a text to Sherlock, never to get an answer. He didn’t bring up any of his thoughts with Sarah, but it was clear she knew exactly what was going on inside his head.

He visited one of his old mates, who was charmed by Sarah. In fact, John was ashamed to admit he’d been relieved for Sarah to have a distraction so that he could worry about Sherlock some more while they were out to lunch with him.

There wasn’t a lot that he _didn’t_ think about when it came to Sherlock back at the flat. Was he eating? Probably not. Sleeping? Doubtful. Staying off of his foot at least as much as was necessary? Not likely.

He sent another text.

_How’s your foot?_

A few minutes later, he read the response under the table.

_Fine. Where have you been? –SH_

_Seriously?_

_Yes. –SH_

John, still in wonder at the fact that him being out of the country could be something that Sherlock would overlook, didn’t know how to respond. As it turned out, he didn’t have to.

_Dinner? –SH_

_What, you’re actually hungry?_

_No. But I suppose I have to eat sometime. You seem to insist upon it. –SH_

John shook his head. He could practically hear the eye-roll.

_I’ll have Mrs. H bring something up to you._

_Staying at Sarah’s again? –SH_

John blinked in amazement.

_Don’t wait up_ , was his reply, because he just didn’t know whether he should even tell Sherlock where he was, plus Sarah had shot him a look and he took that as the signal for his phone to be put away for the afternoon.

+++

John waited until that night, after Sarah had fallen asleep, to check it again. There were three messages from Sherlock and one from Lestrade.

_Case. Meet me, NSY. –SH_

_Where are you? –SH_

_This is getting tiresome. Where have you been? Have I done something to upset you? –SH_

John considered whether he was imagining the disappointment and guilt in that last text as he opened the one from Lestrade.

_Are you and Sherlock alright? Where have you been?_

He answered much more quickly than he would have thought possible.

_I’m in New Zealand with Sarah._

Minutes later, Greg replied:  _He seems to think he’s done something wrong. He’s not acting like his usual arrogant self._

John sighed. _He hasn’t even noticed I’ve left the country. Could you tell him for me?_

_Sure. And please tell me you’re getting back soon. It’s not right, him being this way._

John smiled. It didn’t matter what Sherlock thought, there were people who cared about him, and Greg Lestrade was one of them.

_I’ll be back on Wednesday. You think the case’ll be closed by then?_

_Not at the rate he’s going._

John furrowed his brow and decided to try and sleep. Which was nearly impossible, knowing that Sherlock wasn’t acting like a prat for the benefit of everyone at home. When he did sleep, it was fitful, and he awoke the next morning with the taste of a forgotten nightmare still on his lips.

+++

When the plane landed at Heathrow a few days later, John was relieved to see Sherlock waiting for him. Then, suddenly, he was irritated as he remembered that Sarah was still there. The thing that troubled him, though, was that he couldn’t decide whether he was irritated at Sherlock or Sarah.

Sherlock waved awkwardly, nodded politely at Sarah, and took John’s suitcase from him.

“Sherlock, I can—”

“What, I can’t do something nice?”

John physically took a step back at his tone. “Of course you can.”

“Right. Well, I’ve got a cab waiting. Lestrade said I should come wait here for you and we could go straight back to Scotland Yard. We’ve got a case on, a really brilliant one.” Sherlock’s eyes shined with excitement as he mentioned the case, and it was all John could do not to throw his arms around him in a fond embrace.

To keep from acting on the impulse, he turned to Sarah. “We could take you home,” he said, ignoring Sherlock’s impatient sigh.

“No, it’s fine.” John stared at her as she added, mumbling, “Go have fun with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Right,” John said, awkwardness settling into the space between them. It was somehow solidified when he leant over and pecked her on the cheek. She walked away without another word.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Trouble in paradise?”

“She was fine on the plane. I don’t know what—” He cut himself off and turned to Sherlock, who smiled one of his rare, bright smiles.

“Welcome back.”

“It’s good to be home.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short version: not dead.

The next time John saw Sarah was when she told him it wasn’t going to work out between them. 

She tried to make it clear that there were no hard feelings, but it didn’t take a Holmes to see that there were in fact very many hard feelings, and that each and every one of them had something to do with Sherlock Holmes. 

Similar sentiments came from every attempt at a relationship on John’s part that summer, although admittedly some women were much less graceful with their unwarranted jealousy of Sherlock, and as a result much more blunt in ending things. 

It always went the same way, too. John would go on two or three successful dates, always between cases, when Sherlock would lie around and sulk, occasionally plucking out an angry pizzicato melody on his violin to occupy himself and irritate John. The following week would see the start of a case, which would be a great way to get Sherlock out of the flat if it meant John could actually get through a date without Sherlock either texting him urgently about something or, in the case of a particularly promising prospect, showing up at the cinema and getting himself into a rather dangerous tussle with the projectionist, a peril which John was forced to thwart by brute force with a case containing the reel for  _Inception_. 

Another memorable breakup was that which occurred on Shaftesbury Avenue in mid-June. Emily, her name was, which was surprisingly the most memorable thing about her, aside from the way she ended it. When Sherlock had come up with the absolutely mad idea to pose as fictional terrorists in order to expose some actual terrorists of the kind that speak the language of business and wear suits much more traditional than the typical villainous garb, John hadn't realized that the plan would require him to be dressed in that 'typical' garb at eight o'clock in the evening outside a restaurant in Soho--the very same restaurant where he had been planning on meeting Emily half an hour earlier. She would have ruined the effect of he and Sherlock dressing up as comic book villains and performing a scene if John hadn't insisted they step around a corner. Still, he couldn't keep her from causing a much more realistic one before storming off and shouting, "Don't bother phoning. Whatever it is you want, just let Sherlock  _bloody_ Holmes take care of it!" as Sherlock stood at the corner with his hands at his sides and his brow furrowed. 

The end of each case brought John into a frustrated silence for a few hours, until Sherlock would call for tea from his bedroom. John would then curse both himself and Sherlock as he put the kettle on, take the tea to Sherlock's room, and find him sound asleep, fully clothed and facedown in the pillow. It was nothing new, but it did nothing to quell his resentment. 

Still, he would pull off posh-but-scuffed shoes and draw the sheets over the limp form of his flatmate, his dead weight on top of all the covers sometimes making the latter quite difficult, in which case John would bitterly hope to roll Sherlock off the bed completely as he tugged the sheets free. 

Those were the nights that John would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, not even making the slightest attempt to get back to sleep. There was very little that didn't cross his mind during those hours of darkness, and he tried again and again to convince himself that he dwelled equally on each subject. There was no conscious decision, no premeditated plan to do so, but John found himself desperately willing it to be so. There was nothing he could do about the way his guard dropped as he unwittingly drifted off, though, and the next morning always held the vague memory of a dream that he for some reason didn't quite want to forget. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm down on my knees in an explosive tube carriage, begging for forgiveness. You have until next week to tell me how you feel.


End file.
